


Prove It

by ChokolatteJedi



Category: White Collar
Genre: Background Relationships, Concussions, Episode Tag, Episode: s02e16 Under the Radar, Episode: s03e01 On Guard, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, POV Multiple, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-04-13 16:08:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4528473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChokolatteJedi/pseuds/ChokolatteJedi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the immediate aftermath of the explosion, Neal realizes that he might be injured. Not that he'll admit that to Peter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prove It

"Then prove it!"

Neal stalked away from Peter, but after about a block he felt his righteous indignation fading. In its wake he was left with ringing ears, a throbbing head, and aches all over. He didn't recall hitting his head earlier, but honestly the explosion was all one big blur.

However, Neal had enough pride not to turn around and admit that to Peter, so he carried on. He had told Peter the truth – he hadn't even hedged a little – and Peter still didn't believe him. That burned, deep in Neal's gut, like a burning piece of shrapnel had embedded in his belly. It was almost bad enough that he stopped and checked for real shrapnel, but he wasn't quite that fuzzy yet.

This wasn't a physical wound.

By the time Neal made it to June's, night had fallen. And he was shaking, panting, and his steps were unsteady. Just the idea of walking up all of the stairs to his apartment made him nauseous, his head spinning just from the effort of standing upright.

Neal reached for the door, then hesitated. He didn't want to talk to anyone right now, not even the ever-accepting June. She would probably have just the right thing to cool his anger at Peter, or to comfort his aching head. And right now, his anger was the only thing keeping the worst of the aches at bay. Neal clung to it, almost as desperately as he clung to the railing at the foot of the stairs.

He wasn't sure how much time passed – he knew he should be cold from the wind that had sprung up as the sun set, but he was boiling. Rage, fever, it didn't matter. Finally Neal decided to head inside. He'd do his best to avoid June and just collapse into bed until the world shifted back onto its proper axis.

As he placed his foot on the first step, Neal heard a car – no, an SUV – pull to a stop behind him. Somehow knowing who it was, Neal stepped back down onto the sidewalk and slowly turned. He was only slightly surprised to see Jones in the driver's seat instead of Peter, and another small finger of anger curled in Neal's gut.

Peter wasn't coming here to apologize.

The newfound depths of his anger gave Neal enough strength to shove down his nausea and pain and he did a fair approximation of his usual stride. When he reached the SUV, Jones popped the locks in a clear invitation. He didn't look angry, as Peter had, but neither did he look sympathetic. Neal decided that a trip to the doctor to check on his head wasn't in the near future.

Of course, Neal usually avoided doctors like the – well, like Mozzie, really – but he had, for a moment, hoped that Peter had ignored his own suspicions and considered what Neal had been through that afternoon.

No such luck.

Neal climbed into the back seat with only the tiniest groan for the feeling of vertigo and the abuse to his tired legs. Fortunately? Unfortunately? The jury was out, but Jones didn't seem to hear. "So, where're we headed?" Neal attempted his usual brand of levity, but he knew he fell short. Fortunately, unfortunately – again, Neal couldn't decide – Jones also didn't seem to notice this. He glanced at Neal in the rearview mirror, but didn't say anything.

After about five minutes, Neal realized that they were going in a different direction than he expected. "So, not to the office then?" he asked.

Jones caught his eye again, then quickly looked back at the road. Neal knew he should be putting pieces together right now, but the pounding and swirling in his head just would not stop long enough for him to think. It took an embarrassingly long time for him to figure it out, but suddenly – slowly – the pieces clicked into place.

"We're going somewhere off the record, aren't we?" Neal asked. Jones barely glanced at him – a mere flicker of his eyes off the road – but it was confirmation enough. Neal had no doubt they were meeting Peter, and possibly Diana. Jones wouldn't be doing this for anyone else. And if Peter wanted Neal, now, then this was still about the explosion. Peter was getting him before he had a chance to regroup, to come up with a plan, or to run.

And if they were going someplace off the usual reservation, then Peter was about to do something that he wouldn't want on the record. And that didn't bode well for Neal.

He should use this time to prepare, to get himself into a good mental state.

Unfortunately the pounding in his head was approaching blinding proportions, and any kind of mental state other than agony was just impossible. Of course, a good mental state was needed when you were about to lie. However, Neal honestly didn't know anything about the explosion, or the sub, or the burned artwork. Other than, of course, the fact that he had cracked one and seen one and was still feeling the other.

If there was one thing the Le Joyau Precieux heist had taught him, it was that Peter would assume him guilty first and innocent only after he had escaped from prison and convinced El to hear him out. And that had been about one – admittedly stunning – diamond. This was about an entire submarine full of looted Nazi treasure. Pretty much Neal's only hope was that, with no one actively framing him this time, that the dust would eventually settle and Peter would realize that Neal hadn't done it.

Though, purely thinking about the value and the history of what had been there, he kind of wished he had. Honestly, he would rather see that art with Adler than burned. At least with Adler it would have still existed. If he had had time to plan something like this – the treasure would have to go to a museum, of course, or – there was a branch for the victim's recovery fund here in New York, wasn't there? He couldn't remember.

But if he were to steal it, that was what he would do. But that didn't matter, because it was too late, and Adler had let the art blow up, and that had hurt, and-

Not that his protestations of innocence would do much, even if he was in a state right now to make them convincing. But, being Neal, he was sure as hell going to try.

Almost as though his decision was the trigger, Jones pulled to a stop in front of a rundown warehouse. Neal attempted to reach for the door handle, but the screaming muscles in his arms aborted the movement. Jones sighed and unbuckled his own seatbelt. When Neal still didn't move, he sighed again. "Don't make this harder on yourself, man," he said.

It took Neal a moment to realize what he was making harder, and finally the memory floated back to the surface. "Then prove it!" Peter was trying to do just that. Biting his lip to keep from groaning, he managed to unbuckle his seatbelt and get the door open. Swinging his legs out of the car and onto the ground was agony, but not a sound passed his lips.

Standing up made the entire world spin, and Neal had to take several deep, ragged breaths before he felt confident enough to put one foot in front of the other. Jones took the lead, which was a relief. Neal didn't have to concentrate on appearing normal, just in putting one foot in front of the other until he reached the correct place. Silently he thanked whatever deity was listening that there had been no stairs.

Finally they entered a small room, where Peter was standing beside a table, and Neal unconsciously straitened. He didn't want Peter to know how bad he felt – that thought was important, though Neal couldn't remember why. A flash of prison slipped through his mind, and then Peter's angry face. "You took it!"

Peter stepped to the side – when had that happened? – and revealed a large machine on the table. FBI standard issue lie detector.

Oh.

Was all Neal could think. That was not what he was expecting. Or was it? He was having trouble remembering and the pain in his head just would not stop.

The next thing he knew he was sitting down, thankfully, and Jones was questioning him.

"What color are your eyes?"

Wait, he knew this one. "Blue"

"I've never told a lie," he glanced at Peter, because that was usually the kind of thing that would make Peter smile, but not tonight.

A lot of time passed. At least, it felt like a lot of time passed, and Neal really just wanted to sleep. His idea to hide how he was feeling from Peter began to slip away under the assault of the warzone that was happening between his ears. It had to be at least 2am.

"Peter, it's two am…"

Peter gave him a strange look, and Neal tried to figure out what he had done wrong. More wrong. Was it three? One? Should he not be commenting on the time? He could figure it out if the pounding in his head would just stop for one second, or the ringing in his ears or the bright flashes that had begun to crowd into his vision. He closed his eyes, trying to clear the flashes. If they went away then he'd be able to think again. He'd be able to make Peter smile again.

oOo

In retrospect, Neal's condition should have been obvious. Peter had noticed that his eyes were half-lidded, and assumed it was tiredness, or simply because he was pulling a con on them all. Peter had noticed the pauses between his sentences, and the simplicity of his answers and assumed that was because he was pulling a con. Peter had noticed the ginger way Neal sat down, and assumed that he was hiding some kind of sharp stimulus for fooling the lie detector.

If Peter hadn't been so tired and angry himself, the answers should have been obvious. Neal lied by appearing open, alert, and charming; acting tired and rundown wasn't his style. Neal conned by talking, by stringing words and sentences together until you didn't realized what you hadn't intended to agree to; he didn't need to pause to think of the next lie, or to stick to simple words that a child would use. Neal probably had cheated on Sarah's lie detector test, but he wouldn't be so obvious about hiding his stimulus. And, oh yes, he had actually been in an explosion earlier today.

That was the part that Peter was kicking himself for forgetting. Neal had almost died today, and was probably – no, was pretty obviously still suffering for it. Despite himself, Peter found his anger at Neal slipping away, to be replaced with anger at himself.

How had he missed the signs of concussion?

The fact that Jones had missed them too wasn't as comforting as it should be, and Peter paced the ER's waiting room as he, well, waited. Peter didn't do well with waiting, however. Mostly, he was putting off calling El.

On the one hand, he'd had a really bad day, and it would be great to hear her voice again. On the other hand, he wasn't looking forward to admitting that he had missed so many huge clues in his rush to blame Neal for stealing the paintings. Not that he didn't have reason to suspect Neal, but El often viewed things differently. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear her opinion of his actions tonight.

"Peter!" As though his thoughts had summoned her, Peter heard El's voice behind him.  
Spinning around, he was just fast enough to catch her as she gave him a huge hug.

"Hon! How'd you- Jones." He was the only one who knew.

"He called," El admitted. "He said that there was some kind of explosion today and that now Neal was in the hospital?"

Somehow, with El's warm arms around him, and the scent of her fruity shampoo filling his nose, Peter found the strength to admit what had happened. "There was an explosion earlier. Neal was hurt, but I didn't realize it."

"Well it’s a good thing you three were working late then," El sounded so worried, and Peter felt a moment's gratitude to Jones for giving him this out, but he just couldn't take it. He sighed deeply.

"We weren't working, exactly," his voice was low, barely above a whisper, but he knew El had heard, because she tightened her arms around him. "Something bad happened today, and I blamed Neal."

And El, of course, in her wisdom, heard what he didn't say. "Was it his fault?"

Peter sighed again. "I don't know, El. I was so sure before, but now…"

"Your gut?"

And when it came right down to it, that was the part that was killing Peter, because he just didn't know. His gut was churning, but not in the way it usually did when he had a lead on a case. His gut was letting him down. Instead of answering El, he just sighed deeply.

He just didn't know.

oOo

Almost an hour later a doctor came into the waiting room and finally called, "Neal Caffrey?"

Peter stood, El a beat behind him, and the doctor approached them. "Agent Burke; Neal's my partner." Peter said quickly, ignoring the churn in his gut as he said it. Because first and foremost, despite his accusations today, he still thought of Neal as his partner.

"Mr. Caffrey is resting now-" the doctor began.

"Can we see him?" El interrupted. Peter grabbed her had reassuringly.

"In a moment," the doctor said. "Now, Mr. Caffrey is suffering from a moderate concussion. He also has some pretty severe bruising and some hearing loss. We're keeping an eye out for gastrointestinal or pulmonary symptoms, which can present up to a few days after the initial blast.

"Days?" El squeaked.

"Don't worry, we're keeping a close eye on him." The doctor smiled reassuringly. "Now, if you'll follow me, I'll show you to his room."

Peter and El followed the doctor, Peter's head swimming. He'd had a moderate concussion himself once, before he left organized crime for White Collar. He remembered the pain and disorientation and shock and the fact that it seemed to take forever before the symptoms finally abated. And he hadn't been dealing with any of the other problems Neal was facing.

His mind kept showing him images of Neal protesting his innocence, his eyes just a bit glassy, of Neal walking home alone despite the pain, of Neal slowly answering Peter's increasingly furious questions. Neal suffering and Peter not noticing.

They finally reached Neal's room, and, for perhaps the first time that day, Peter really looked at Neal. His eyes were sunken, appearing too dark against his pale, clammy skin. Bruises and scrapes were scattered around his visible skin. Some of them had been covered by the suit, but some hadn't been. Even unconscious, Neal's expression was pained.

Peter felt a similar pain gripping at his heart. What if he had looked – really looked – at Neal earlier. Neal could have been in the hospital being treated hours ago. What if there were long-term repercussions because of the delayed treatment? What if Neal's brilliant mind had been permanently injured because of Peter's blind fury? Well, and Adler's insanity. But mostly Peter's rage. What if he never woke up?

Peter's spiraling thoughts were interrupted by quiet voices, and he looked around the room for the source. Neal was awake, still looking pained, and talking to El in hushed tones. El's hand was resting gently on his forehead as they whispered together.

Peter felt a wave of relief wash though him, followed by another of guilt. He should have noticed something earlier. He shouldn't have blamed Neal for stealing the artwork. Or, maybe he should have – his gut was still undecided – but he definitely should have remembered that Neal had been caught in the explosion's blast wave earlier.

Peter just hoped that his lapse hadn't caused any permanent damage, either to Neal or to their partnership.


End file.
